The Drug Trade Queen
by PaulinaTod
Summary: Isabella Swan, the young girlfriend of Italian pilot Michael Newton, goes on the run when he is killed by rivals from the drug trade. Sent away to the south of Spain, she begins to rebuild her life. She will have to find inside herself a woman who is tough enough to inhabit a world as ugly and dangerous as that of the mob. Based on "The Queen of the South" BxM then BxJ, finally BxE
1. Introduction

_ _ _ The phone rang and she knew that they were going to kill her. She was so sure that she couldn't even move. The blade up high in her frozen hand, her hair glued to her face between the steams of hot water that dripped on the tiles. _Ring-ring_. She stayed very still, holding her breath as if her stillness and the silence could change the course of what had just happened. _Ring-ring_. She was in the bath tub, shaving her right leg, the soapy water up to her waist, and her naked skin stood on end as if she just opened the cold water faucet. _Ring-ring._ On the stereo of the room, played the song "Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics. She always feared that songs were omens, and suddenly they were really dark and threatening. Mike would scoff at her but that noise made her know that she was right and that Mike was wrong. She was right, as always, but what good would that do now? _Ring-ring_. She let go of the razor, walked out of the bath tub and slowly made her way to the bedroom, leaving tracks of water on the floor. The telephone was on the covers, small, black, and sinister. She looked at it without touching it. _Ring-ring._ Terrified. _Ring-ring._ It's ringing was mixing with the song's lyrics, as if it was part of it. Because some of them, indeed, wanted to abuse her. "If the phone ever rings, it's because I have already died. So then, run. Run and don't stop running, 'cause I won't be there to help you. And if you make it alive, wherever you are, drink a Martini in my memory. For the good times, babe. For the good times." And that's just how irresponsible and brave Michael Newton was. They used to call him the King of the Track, even Mr. Carlisle Cullen. Mike was capable of rising planes over a thousand feet high and flying over the water in the darkest nights, avoiding the Federal's radiators and the DEA's traps.

The water that kept dripping from her body began to make a puddle under her feet. The phone kept ringing, and she knew that it wasn't necessary for her to answer the call to know that Mike had run out of luck. The phone ringing was enough for her to stop and follow the instructions given to her, but it isn't that easy to accept that just a simple Ring-ring can change your life forever. After what seemed like forever, she finally got the phone and pressed the green button.

"Isabella… Mike's dead," She didn't recognized the voice. Mike had friends and some were loyal, forced because of the times when they passed the weed and the finest packages through the wheels of some cars headed to the U.S. It could be any of them. Maybe it was Alex Carter or Joey Monteon. She didn't recognize the voice and she didn't need to, because the message was so fucking clear.

"Mike's dead" the voice kept saying.

"They've killed him and they're planning on killing your friend's family and you. So run all you can. Run and don't stop running." And then the line went dead, and she looked down at her feet and realized that she was shaking with fear, and thought that, whoever the person on the phone was, had repeated the same words Mike had said. She imagine anonyms man paying attention between the smoke of the cigarette and the drinks in the bar, Mike in front of him, smoking weed and his feet cross under the table like he used to sit, his Louis Vuitton loafers spotless without an ounce of dirt in sight, a scarf around his neck, his aviator jacket hanged over the back of his chair, his blond hair cropped by his sides and a sharp and secured smile plastered on his face.

"Would you do that for me, bro, if the fuck me up? Would you tell her to run and to not stop running, because they want to fuck her up, too?"

The panic came unexpectedly, very different from the fear that she had earlier. Now it was a burst of confusion and madness that made her want scream and bring her hands to her head. Her legs were unable to hold her, so she landed seated on the bed. She looked around at the white and golden trim of the headboard, at the pictures up on the walls with beautiful landscapes and a couple strolling at sunsets, cute little porcelains knick knacks that she had collected and put up on the shelf with the intention that their home would turn out to be a cute and comfortable one. She knew that it wasn't a home anymore, and that in a couple of minutes it would be nothing more than a trap. She saw herself in the big mirror in front of her, naked, soaked, her dark hair glued to her face, and between her locks her brown eyes wide open, wild with horror.

'Run and don't stop running' had said Mike and the voice that repeated Mike's words.

So then she began to run.

Yay! Finally published! Leave a Review if you think it was great, okay, or even terrible. Keep in mind that this is my first story and that I'm actually translating the story from the original book but also changing a few things. Well, thanks for reading! & don't forget to review! ^-^


	2. Chapter 1

After finding out that her beloved boyfriend, Mike Newton, had been killed, Isabella Swan became lost and found herself being sucked into some deep shit. She threw the phone and moved rapidly around her room, opening and closing drawers, looking for a bag to put the things that she needed before she began to run. She wanted to scream his name, wanted to shout until her voice became raw and she could cream no more. But the terror that assaulted her in waves numbed her actions and feelings. It was as if she had smoked some type of poisonous weed that had transported her into a distant body. One in which she had no control over. And just like that, after dressing in a hurry with some jeans, a shirt, and shoes, she stumbled down the stairs with a small bag with the few things that she had bothered to put inside like shirts, a jacket, jeans, underwear, socks, a wallet with two hundred Euros, and her documentation. _They'll go to the house right away_, had warned Mike. _They'll go and see what they can find. And they better not find you._

She stopped to look out to the street, undecided, with the instinctive precaution of a prey looking for the hunter and his dogs. Before her lay the complex urban topography of a hostile area with narrow streets, small, comfortable houses with bougainvilleas and nice cars parked in front. Suddenly, the lady at the drugstore across the street, the employee from the store in the corner where she had been doing grocery shopping for the past two years, and the bank guard with his blue uniform and shotgun shoulder strap, the same one that used to greet her with a small smile every time she passed by, seemed to her dangerous and on guard. _No more friends_, had said Mike with that carefree laugh that sometimes she adored and others hated with all her soul. _The day the phone rings and you take off, you'll be all alone, babe. And I won't be able to help you._

She squeezed the bag like a safety blanket and walked down the sidewalk with her head down, not looking at anything or anyone, trying not to start walking too fast. The sun began to set and the houses stood out against the orange sky of Volterra. If someone had called her name at that moment she probably wouldn't have been able to hear it. The thud of her racing heart in her eardrums made all the other noises around her sound muffled. It was so loud against her ears that it was possible for her to not even hear the sound of a gunshot. _Of her gunshot_. She was so tense that her back was starting to ache. The Situation. She had heard it so much that it had been imprinted permanently on her mind, something like a tattoo. Yes, like a tattoo. One that she was desperate to get rid of. _In this business_, had said Mike, _we must be able to recognize The Situation. The Situation is when someone comes in and says good morning. Maybe you know him and he'll smile. Smooth. But you'll notice something strange. A vague feeling, like something is not right. And a moment later you'll be dead._ Mike had looked at Isabella while speaking, pointing his finger at her like a gun. _Although that is always better than being taken to the middle of nowhere to be interrogated. Because the problem isn't knowing the answers, in that case it's easier to get off the hook. No, the problem is when you don't know the answers. It isn't easy to convince the guy with a gun pointed at you that you honestly don't know the answers to the questions he yearns to be answered._

_Fuck. I hope Mike died quickly_, thought Isabella.

She walked three blocks without looking back. The heels she wore were too high, and she realized that she was going to twist her ankle whenever she started to run if she didn't take them off soon. So she took them off, putting them in the bag, and turned right at the next corner, barefoot. There she stopped outside a café to check if she was being followed but, fortunately, saw nothing that indicated danger. She walked into the little café and went to sit in a table near the back. She sat with her back to the wall and her eyes facing the street, all the while trying to calm her racing heart. Her wet hair slid over her face and she pushed it away but quickly put it over her face after realizing it was better that way. It would hide her a little bit more. Someone brought her a green tea and she just stood there for a while, with her thoughts jumbling in her head. Then she felt the urge to smoke. She asked the waitress for a cigarette and lit it up with the lighter she was given while trying to ignoring the odd looks directed to her bare feet. She stood very still, smoking, and trying to organize her thoughts. She let out the white smoke from her nose and felt her tense muscles relax. She took another drag and leaned back against the chair. After a few more drags she felt capable enough to analyze The Situation. She knew she needed to get to the other house, the safe one, and fast. It was there were the money and the documents were at, and without that, no matter how much she ran, she would never get anywhere. Then there was Mike's agenda that had phone numbers, addresses, notes, and contacts, clandestine airstrips in Livorno, Cecina, Bibbona and Rosignano Solvay. Of friends and enemies (it was not easy to distinguish them from each other) in France, Greece, Austria and others across the Atlantic Ocean in Canada, Alaska, and the U.S. _That one, you burn or hide it,_ he had said. _For your sake don't even open it, babe. Don't. And only if you're really fucked, exchange it with Mr. Carlisle Cullen with the chance to live. Is that clear? Swear to me that you won't open it for the world. Swear it on God, please baby, please._

She didn't have much time left. She had forgotten her watch but saw that it was getting darker and darker. The street was quiet with regular traffic and with no one standing nearby. She put her shoes on then left ten Euros on the table and rose slowly, clutching the bag. She dared not look at herself in the mirror on her way out. In the corner, a man sold sodas, cigarettes, and newspapers that were placed on a carton that read the word Samsung. She bought a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, glancing sideways and then continued walking slowly and deliberately. The Situation. A parked car, a policeman, a man sweeping the sidewalk, all made her anxious. Her back muscled began to ache once again and she had a bittersweet taste in her mouth. Once again her heels made her uncomfortable. _If Mike saw me now_, she thought, _he would have laughed his fucking ass out_. _Fucking Mike! Where will you be laughing now, you fucking idiot?!_ She smelled burning meat as she passed a little hot-dog stand, and the bitter taste in her mouth suddenly deepened. She had to stop to throw up the green tea she had drunk before.

She could hear a song playing from the music store located on the corner from where she was crouching. She was not sure what part the song was in but she had no doubt it was Scusa Ma Ti Chiamo Amore by Sugarfree. She knew it all too well. It was Mike's favorite song and the fucker would always sing it loudly while shaving, with the window wide open just to spite the neighbors. Or he would sing it softly to her whenever he had managed to piss her off. _Scusa ma ti chiamo amore, non so dire nulla piu. Scusa se ti ho dato un nome, dico solo che sei tu._

_Fucking son of a bitch_, she thought. She bit her fist in order to control the sob that threatened to come out. Then she looked to the right and then to the left. She was still on the lookout for a face, a presence that meant danger. They would, without a doubt, send someone who knew her, she thought. Someone that could identify her. That's why her hope was to recognize him before he recognized her. Or maybe she had to recognize _them_, as in more than two. They tended to go in pairs to support each other. Recognizing them in time and taking notice of the danger in their eyes. Or in their smile. _Someone will smile_, she recalled. _And a moment later you'll be dead._

_Hopefully_, she added silently. _With any luck I'll be dead. In Italy,_ she told herself while imagining the desert and the guy with the gun that Mike had mentioned, _having or not having luck was only a matter of speed, of additions and subtractions. The longer it takes for you to die, the less lucky you are._

Volterra's traffic flow was coming from behind. She fell into the street while leaving the _calzature_ behind, then she turned to the left, looking for Via del Forno. Mike had explained that, should she ever be followed, she should try to take streets where the traffic came from the front, that way she would be able see in time when the cars come by. She walked along the street, turning every now and then to look back. And that is how she got to the ancient Teatro Romano and got between the crowds that filled the area. Only there did she feel a little safer. The sky was a deep orange now. To the west, the windows were beginning to illuminate the sidewalks. _It isn't very likely to ever be killed in places like this_, she thought_. Or kidnapped_.

There were two cops in brown uniforms standing in a corner. The face of one was vaguely familiar, so she went back and changed directions. Many local agents were working with the drug traffickers. They did work for major mob bosses and gave out protection whenever it was needed. They also enforced the rule of "letting people live unless you wish to stop living". Three months ago, a police chief that had just arrived wanted to change the rules of the game. They had shot him seventy times with an AK-47 at the door of his house. _Ratatatata._

Isabella walked straight ahead, leaving behind the jewelry store _Fabula Etrusca._ Mike's safe house, their refuge in case of an emergency, was a few meters away on the second floor of an unobtrusive apartment building. No one but the two of them knew about it. Isabella had been there only once, and Mike himself hardly ever went there. She climbed the stairs, careful not to make any noise, and then she slipped the key in the lock and turned it quietly. She knew that there couldn't be anybody in there but she, nevertheless, couldn't help but feel uneasy so she checked the apartment, straining her ears to hear any little sound that didn't seem right.

"Not even this place is entirely safe," had said Mike. "Maybe someone saw me or knows something. And even if it's neither of those, if they catch me, and in case I'm still alive, I'll only be able keep my mouth shut for so long before I start to spill the beans. So be on guard, baby. I hope I can hold it in for enough time so you can get the money and disappear before they drop by. But no promises, babe," he said while smiling, the bastard. "I can't promise anything."

The living room had bare walls, with only a table, four chairs, and a sofa and the bedroom had a big bed, a bedside table, and a house telephone. The bedroom window looked back to the building's parking lot as well as the yellow domes of the church nearby. Isabella noticed two fat envelopes as she opened the second drawer of the bedside table. She opened the envelopes hastily and saw that they had about five thousand Euros each. _A little over thirteen hundred dollars_, thought the previous money exchanger of Via del Forno. The drawer also had Mike's agenda. It was a large notebook with a brown leather cover. _Don't open it_, she recalled. She also saw a bag of white powered but then she saw something flashy that caught her eye. It was a _Colt Double_ Eagle. Mike didn't really like weapons and he never carried them with him. He believed that when they're out to get you there's no escaping, but he kept the gun in case of an emergency. Isabella didn't like them either, but she knew the importance of having one and knowing how to use it. Her hands were shaking as she put the gun in the bag she had brought with her. Half way through putting it in, a car's horn that echoed down the street made her jump. She was very still of a moment before she continued looking in the drawer. Alongside the Euros were two passports. One was Mike's, the other was hers. She stared at Mike's picture for a moment. At his blond hair, his beautiful blue eyes, and his captivating smile. After hesitating for a moment she decided to only put hers in the bag. She took a deep breath, trying hard not to cry but suddenly the realization of what happened dawned to her once more and she couldn't keep the tears in any longer. She let out a heart-wrenching sob and fell to the floor. She realized that she hadn't cried in a very long time.

She looked around, her eyes blurry with tears, trying to think whether she was forgetting something. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it was about to burst through her chest. She walked towards a large window and looked down at the street that was beginning to grow dark with the shadows of nightfall. She lit a cigarette and took a few indecisive steps through the apartment. She had to get out of here. That much was clear. But the question was _where?_

She was at the door of the bedroom when she noticed the telephone, and a thought flashed through her head: Mr. Carlisle Cullen. He was a nice guy, that Mr. Cullen. He had worked with Armando Carrillo in his golden years of runs in the American continent and he had always been a good godfather to Mike. Always a man of his word, a man you could trust, a real professional. After a while, he invested in other businesses and got into politics and stopped needing planes. Mr. Cullen had offered Mike a place with him but Mike liked to fly, even if it was for other people. _Up there you're somebody_, he would say, _and down there you're just a mule driver_. Mr. Cullen didn't get offended. Quite the opposite, actually. He had given Mike some money for a new Cessna when Mike's old one had gotten fucked up in a violent touch-down on a landing strip up in the mountains, with three hundred kilos of little Miss White inside, all wrapped up in masking tape. There were two Federal planes circling overhead, highways green with soldiers, AR-15s firing, sirens wailing, AK-47 booming - one bad fucking afternoon, no doubt. Mike had been lucky, with only a broken arm as a witness of the incident. Broken once by the law and then again by the owners of the cargo, to whom he had to prove with newspaper clippings that everything had been nationalized; that three of the eight mean on the reception team had been killed defending the landing strip, and that the one who'd messed with the flight was a guy from Rome who worked with the police. The loudmouth had wound up with his hands tied behind his back, suffocated with a plastic bag over his head, as had his father, his mother, and sister while Mike, cleared of suspicion, went to buy a Cessna with the money granted to him by Mr. Cullen.

She put out the cigarette, left the bag open on the floor, next to the headboard, and pulled out the agenda. She stared at it curiously for a while, contemplating her next move. _Don't even look at it_, she remembered. It belonged to the same guy that was, at the moment, probably burning in hell. Even as a corpse she still took orders from him, the idiot. _Don't you dare_, a voice from inside warned. _Just a peak_, said another. _If this is worth your life, find out just how much it's worth_. To puck in a little courage, she pulled out the bag of white powder, stuck in a fingernail and brought it to her nose, inhaling in deeply. A moment later, with a different clarity, she looked again at the agenda and opened it. The name of Mr. Cullen was there, as well as others' whose names gave her the chills. There were telephones, contact points, intermediaries, and numbers and codes whose meaning she did not know. She read on, and slowly her pulse began to speed up once again. She could even fell the color drain from her face. _Don't even look at it_, she recalled with a shudder. Fuck. Now she understood why. It was much worse than she had anticipated.

Then she heard the door open.


	3. Chapter 2

"Look who we have here, Charlie." Laurent was grinning like the Cheshire cat, exposing a flash of gleaming white teeth. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes that made Isabella shudder.

"It's Mike's chic." The gunman was standing, leaning against the door frame with his hands in his pockets. His eyes never left Isabella as he spoke to his partner. The corner of his mouth lifted to form a smirk.

"I don't know anything." said Isabella. She was so terrified she barely recognized her own voice. Laurent nodded his head sympathetically.

"Of course." He had lost count of the number of men and women who claimed to know nothing before killing them quickly, or slowly, depending on the circumstances. And Isabella was well aware of that. She knew Laurent and his partner Charles D'Angelo, also known as Charlie, and how they worked.

She looked at the pair of hit mans and saw that they both wore black suits with different colored ties and a pair of black leather shoes. They were Felix Rizzo's hit men and had frequented Mike a lot. They were coworkers, airborne cargo escorts, and drink buddies.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"Aw… Do you hear that, Charlie? ... She's asking for Mike. How sweet."

He was still leaning on the door frame. The other gunman shook his head. He had a mustache, curly brown hair, and an average build. He didn't seem as much at ease as his companion, and he looked at his watch impatiently. Or maybe uncomfortably. When he moved his arm, he revealed the butt of a revolver in his waist, under the suit jacket.

"...Mike," Laurent repeated, deep in thought.

He took his hands out of his pockets and started walking slowly towards Isabella, who was sitting motionless at the head of the bed. When he reached her he stopped and looked down at her.

"Well, you see, _piccola_," he said at last, "your man thought he was smart."

Isabella felt the fear writhing in her intestines, like a rattlesnake. The Situation. A fear as white and cold as the surface of a gravestone.

"Where is he?" she repeated.

It wasn't her talking; it was some stranger whose unexpected, unforeseeable words startled her- a reckless stranger who didn't recognize the urgent need for silence. Laurent must have sensed that because he looked at her strangely, surprised that she could ask questions instead of sitting there paralyzed or screaming in terror.

"He's nowhere. He's dead."

The stranger continued to act on her own and Isabella was once again startled to hear herself curse at them.

"Fucking bastards." That is what she had said: fucking bastards. She regretted it as soon as the last syllable left her lips. Laurent was studying her with a great deal of curiosity and attention.

"That's not very nice," he said, still thoughtful. "Talking about us that way... That mouth of yours will cost you a great deal, piccola," he added. And then he slapped her, knocking her full length across the bed, backwards. He stood looking down at her, as though admiring the view. With the blood pounding in her temples and her cheek throbbing, and her head dulled by the blow, Isabella saw his eyes go to the packet of powder on the bedside table. He picked up a pinch and raised it to his nose

"Hm, good stuff," the hit man said. "It's been cut but it's still good stuff." he rubbed his nose with his thumb and index finger, then offered some to his companion but Charlie shook his head and looked at his watch again.

"There's no hurry, amico," said Laurent. "None at all." he turned once more to Isabella.

"Nice piece of meat, Mike's girlfriend... and now she's a widow, the poor thing."

From the door, Charles D'Angelo spoke his companion's name. "Laurent," he said, very seriously. "Let's get this over with."

Laurent brushed him off with a wave of his hand and sat down near the edge of the bed.

"Stop fucking around," Charlie insisted. "The orders were to off her, not boff her. So get on with it. Don't be an asshole."

But Laurent shook his head. "My, my," he said. "I've always wanted a piece of this."

Isabella had been raped other times. Once when she was fifteen by several of the boys from the neighborhood, and then once again by the man who'd put her to work in Via de Forno. So she knew what to expect when the killer's knife-like smile grew wider and wider and he unbuttoned her jeans. And suddenly, she wasn't afraid. _This isn't happening_, she thought_. I'm asleep and this is just a nightmare like all the others, the ones I lived through before, something that happens to the other woman I dream about, the one who looks like me but isn't. I can wake up whenever I want to, listen to my man's breathing on the pillow, hold him to me, bury my face in the crook of his neck, and discover that none of this had ever happened. I can also die in my sleep, of a heart attack, a cerebral hemorrhage, of whatever. I can die all of a sudden, and neither the dream nor life itself would have an importance anymore. Sleep, without images of anything at all, without nightmares. Rest forever from what has never happened._

"Laurent," the other man repeated. He had moved at last, taking a couple steps into the room. "What the fuck, man? Mike was one of us. A good guy, remember? And this was his girl." and as he was saying this, he pulled a Colt Python out of his waistband and pointed it at Isabella's forehead. "Get up so you don't get splattered, man, and let me put her lights out."

But Laurent had other plans. "She's going to die anyways," he said, "and it'd be a waste."

He knocked the Colt Python away and Charlie stood looking at them, indecisive. He stood tall with dark, beads of sweat between the thick mustache hairs. And then it was Laurent who took his gun out, a big, silver Beretta, and pointed it at his companion's face, telling him he either fucked the girl as well or left him alone. Charlie looked at Isabella with resignation and shame and stood there, opening and closing his mouth, trying to say something, but at last said nothing, and slowly put the Colt Python away. Then he gradually moved away from the bed and walked slowly to the door, without turning, while the other gunman still pointed his gun at him and said then said to his friend that they would later go to the bar to talk about him having become a fagot. As soon as the man disappeared to the other room, Isabella heard the sound of a blow. Perhaps it was the closet door that had been the victim of the gunshot and Isabella, for some stranger reason, was thankful for it. But she had no time to dwell on that because Laurent had started to take her jeans off (more like ripping them off, actually) and he lifted her shirt and started violently caressing her breasts after he had put the gun between her legs. She lay there quietly, staring blankly at the ceiling, praying to God for everything to be over soon. She wanted to die already. She wanted to die before everything around her stopped looking like a nightmare and become the fucking horror that life was.

It was the same old story. The same old story with the same fucking ending. It couldn't end any other way. Though, Isabella Swan never imagined that The Situation would smell like sweat, like a jealous man, like the shots said man had taken before going to search for her. _Hopefully it'll all end_, she thought. _Hopefully it'll be over soon_, _and then I'll be able to rest._ She thought this for a moment and then went back to a blank mind.

It was too late for fear. Fear is experienced before things happen, and the only comfort that this brought was the fact that all things eventually come to an end. The only real fear is for the end to delay too much. Laurent pushed her violently, with the urgent need to finish and get off. It was silent. Brief. He pushed her hard, roughly, and slowly took her to the edge of the bed. Resigned, she stared at the white ceiling. Isabella dropped an arm and it slammed against the open bag on the floor.

She suddenly realized that The Situation could have two alternatives. It could either be hers or it could be others. So great was her surprise when considering this that, if she could, she would have jumped out of the bed as soon as the thought passed through her mind. But unfortunately, she could not play out the plan that had formulated itself in her brain because the only thing that was free was her arm and her hand which had, accidentally, fallen into the bag and that was now brushing lightly across the cold metal surface of the Colt Double Eagle that was in between the stacks of bills and clothes.

_This is not happening to me_, she thought. Or maybe she just didn't think at all, but merely observed, passively, at the other Isabella Swan that took her place. The point was that she, or the other woman that she observed, had her fingers enclosed around the gun's stock. The safety was on the left, next to the trigger and the button to eject the magazine. She touched it with her thumb and felt it slide down vertically as she the hammer was released. _There's a bullet there_, she reminded herself. _There's a bullet inside because I put it there, a long time ago when I was in the room_, she remembered she heard a click-clack. _Or maybe I just thought I did, but didn't, and the bullet isn't here at all. _She considered this with a passionless calculation: safe, trigger, hammer. Bullet. That was the proper sequence of the parts if that _click-clack_ before had been real and not just a figment of her imagination. Even if there were no bullets in the gun, the action alone would make Laurent think that the gun was, indeed, fully charged. Either way it wouldn't make things worse. Perhaps it would just cause more violence (or cruelty) in her last moments. It wasn't anything new for her, for the woman that she watched, or maybe even for both. As she thought this she stopped looking at the white ceiling and realized that Laurent had stopped moving and was looking at her. Then Isabella raised the gun and shot him in the face.

* * *

**A/N: Well, the second chapter is up! ^_^ I hoped you found it interesting enough to review. All type of criticism is welcomed. :)**


	4. Chapter 3

There was an acrid smell in the room. It smelled liked gunpowder. The sound of the gunshot still echoed in the walls of the bedroom when Isabella squeezed the trigger a second time, but the Colt Double Eagle had sprung up during the first shot, so the new shot hit the wall instead. By that time Laurent had already been thrown against the bedside table. She covered her mouth with her hands. Her eyes widened when she noticed that her fingers where tainted with blood. The same blood was slashed on her hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Isabella could not tell if she had screamed or not, because the noise of the shot was so close to her that it had damaged her eardrums, deafening her. She kneeled herself on the bed, bundled up her shirt against her chest, naked from the waist down. She then clasped her hands together at the stock of the gun for a better aim when suddenly she saw Charlie at the door, looking haggard and stunned. She turned to face him completely. Even though he had his gun tucked under his belt, he raised both hands in surrender, looking warily at the gun Isabella had turned towards him. Under the black mustache he opened his mouth to utter a silent 'no', though it sounded more like a plea. But perhaps he had not whispered it and had said it out loud but the thundering noise of the gunshots had made her momentarily deaf. She concluded that that must have been it because Charlie's lips kept moving in a rapid pace, with his hands still outstretched before him, trying to calm her and uttering words whose sound she could not hear. Isabella was about to pull the trigger when she remembered the bullet shot at the closet, the Colt Python pointed to his forehead; _Mike was one of us, Laurent. Don't be an asshole. This was his girl._

She didn't pull the trigger. She felt the cold of the room against her belly and bare legs as she got off the bed, the gun still aimed at Charlie. With her left hand she threw the clothes, the agenda, and the cocaine into the bag. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Laurent writhing in pain on the floor, his bloody hands over his face. For a moment she thought of walking towards him and ending him with a shot, but the other gunman was still at the door, with his hands outstretched and his gun in his belt, and she knew with a great certainty that if she stopped aiming at him, a bullet would certainly hit her before she could even utter the word fuck. So she grabbed the bag, while still holding a firm grip on Colt Double Eagle that was in her right hand, and walked away from the bed. First Charlie, she decided, and then Laurent. That was how things had to go; the squeaking sounds of the bed-springs were not enough to change her mind. As she looked into the eyes of her new target, she saw realization dawn upon him. A confused murmur reached her ears as she pulled the trigger for the third time on the already fleeing man. And she fired a fourth and fifth time before realizing that it was pointless and that she would surely run out of bullets before getting to him. She decided to not go after the running man because she knew that he couldn't leave just like that, so abruptly. She was sure he was going to come back sooner or later. Two floors… There were two floors he would have to go down and up again… That would surely give her enough time to escape. She walked over to her window and opened it, peering around the backside of the building. She got out the window, lunged herself towards a tree and climbed down. _Fuck! I forgot to kill the other motherfucker_, she thought angrily. The branches and bushes scratched her legs, thighs, and feet as she climbed down. She felt an excruciating pain in her ankles as she landed on the floor. She limped, surprised to be alive, but then decided to run. She ran barefoot and naked from the waist down, between the parked cars and shadows. She stopped after a while, breathless, and crouched down, trying to catch her breath. Apart from the tingling sensation in her scratched and wounded feet, she felt an uncomfortable burning sensation on her thighs and her sex. The memory seemed to come to her as the other Isabella Swan disappeared into oblivion. She had the sudden urge to urinate and began to do so, nothing else really mattered anymore. A car's headlights illuminated her for just a moment as she was crouched down in the dark, shivering furiously, with a bag in one hand and a gun in the other.

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**A/N: I hoped you found it interesting enough to review. All type of criticism is welcomed. :)**

**P.S.: MegMarie1121, I will be sticking with the original plot, however, there will be some minor changes. I'm still not sure if there will be a HEA, though... I'm still thinking about it. But all things in due time, don't you think? :D Thank you for reading and reviewing! ^-^**


	5. Chapter 4

_Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee._

The small Catholic chapel was dark. A lantern shone on the covered entrance, the one that was opened at all times. The windows shone with a red light from some of the candles that stood before the altar. Isabella stood motionless in the dark for a long time, hidden by the wall that separated the Via from the deserted railroad tracks and the canal. She tried to pray but couldn't, other things were occupying her mind at the moment. She had taken a long time pondering on making the phone call, calculating the possibilities. She now waited, with cigarette ashes hidden in her palm. _Half an hour_, Mr. Carlisle Cullen had said. Isabella didn't have a watch, and it was therefore impossible to calculate how much time had passed by. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She put the cigarette out just in time as a police car passed by slowly, in direction towards the Boulevard. She was never able to finish that useless prayer she had began long ago. _Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. _She had started it six or seven times already, without being able to finish it. The old, yellow chapel brought back too many memories linked to Mike Newton. Maybe that's why, when Mr. Carlisle Cullen agreed to meet her, she had said the name of the place, almost without thinking. Mr. Carlisle, initially, had proposed to meet in a via near her home, but that meant crossing the city again and that proved to be too risky. And even though she didn't mention any details of what had happened, only that she was running and that Mike had told her to get in touch with Mr. Carlisle, she knew he realized that things for her were bad. He even tried to calm her. _Don't you dare worry, Bellie, okay? I'll see you soon. Keep calm and do not move. Hide yourself and tell me where._ He would always call her Bellie whenever he ran into her and Mike, sometimes as they walked along the waterfront or while they were eating in beach restaurants near the coast of Italy. He would call her Bellie and give her a kiss on the cheek. Once, he had even presented her to his wife and kids. And despite the fact that Mr. Cullen was a very intelligent and powerful man, with more money than Mike could ever dream of making in his life, he was always kind to him, and kept calling him godson just like in the old times, and on one occasion, near Christmas Day (the first one that Isabella had spent with Mike) Mr. Cullen sent her some flowers and a very beautiful Colombian emerald pendant necklace in a white gold chain along with ten thousand Euros. The money Mr. Cullen had sent her was for her to buy something for Mike, as a surprise, as well as to buy herself whatever she wanted. That is why Isabella had phoned him that night, saved him Mike's agenda, and waited quietly in the dark a few steps from the chapel. _Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee._

"You can only trust Carlisle because he's the only one that can get you out of this shit," had claimed Mike. "He's been a great man and he's also my godfather. He'll help you." Fucking Mike. That's what he had said before everything went downhill and before the phone (the one that wasn't suppose to fucking ring) rang and she was pulled into all of this mess. _I hope you burn in hell, you fucking bastard, for putting me through this shit_, she thought. Now she knew that she could trust in no one. _Hail Mary, full of grace. The lord is with thee. _

Isabella moved her head to the left and saw the porcelain statue of Saint Joseph. Joseph was not a saint from Volterra but of Cupertino, a town in the province of Lecce in the Apulia region of south-east Italy. St. Joseph's he was considered the patron saint of air travelers, aviators, astronauts, people that were handicapped, test takers, and poor students. Isabella had prayed to him every time Mike would go out on a mission. Mike had scoffed at her first, saying that it was all a bunch of bullshit but Isabella ignored him and kept praying to him and after the incident Mike had in where he had almost died, Isabella made sure to buy Mike a photo of the saint with a brief prayer on the back. Mike knew how much it meant to her so he didn't put a fight and had put the photo on the Cessna's dashboard.

When the headlight of a car that briefly illuminated the chapel where turned off Isabella aimed the gun towards the car. She was scared but that did not stop her from being able to weigh down the pros and cons, calibrating any appearances under which danger could arise. While working as a money exchanger in the streets near a small market, she discovered that she was gifted when it came to calculating. And that was what would help her deal with The Situation. It had been at least five hours since the phone rang and then a couple more from the first bullet she shot at Laurent's face. She was past feeling horror now. At the moment, it was only her witty mind that could keep her alive. That's why her hand didn't tremble. She remembered clearly that she had shot five bullets, that the Double Eagle's recoil was too strong for her to handle and thus the next time that she shot she would have to aim a little below the target as to not miss with her left hand over her right wrist. This was her last chance and she knew it. The fact that her heart was still beating, though very slowly, and that her blood still circulated quietly in her veins was the only proof she had that stated that she was still alive. That's why she had taken a few sniffs from the powdered packet in her bag. That is also why, when the white van arrived, she turned herself to hide her eyes from the dazzling light. She now looked at it from over her gun, with a finger on the trigger, ready to shoot at the first motherfucker that got out.

She held her breath as she heard the door open. One, two, three. _Fuck me._ There were three male figures standing next to the van, backlit by the streetlights. _Choose quickly._

She had thought herself to be safe from all of this. Well, at least in the beginning. Mike had reassured her that he had everything under control. The lying bastard. Fear wasn't something that existed back then. Back then, there were only happy hours spent between them. Utter relaxation and pure bliss. But it was all a trap. That smile he claimed was only hers; those lips that would make her crazy when she kissed them; or that body that could make her feel so good. He had promised her forever_. But forever isn't ever enough._

"Bellie," someone whispered.

That voice, so familiar, so full of warmth, stirred something inside her. Her eyes were blurred with tears. She became so small all of a sudden. So fragile. She didn't want to feel that way but it was too late. Her resolved waned. _Fucking bitch,_ she thought. _Stupid, dumb bitch. If something goes wrong you're fucking screwed._ Her vision became even more blurry and suddenly, she had nothing to aim at so she lowered her gun. _For a tear_, she thought with a sigh. _Now they'll be able to kill me and all for a fucking tear._

"These are bad times."

Mr. Cullen took a long drag from his cigarette and looked around, thoughtfully. Lit candles and lamps illuminated the blond man's profile.

"According to the local news they passed by Tyler's house. Killed his wife and his three kids." He shook his head sadly and moved to sit by Isabella. She looked at him closely. She knew that behind the tailored suits, the expensive Italian ties, and his hundred dollar shirts was still that once poor and humble Italian waiter.

"Apparently, they got to him in the morning and spent the rest of the day... talking. And according to the radio, they took their time."

Isabella could easily imagine it: hands tied back with rust wire, Tyler's screams muffled by a plastic bag or some duck tape.

She was well acquainted with Tyler, his wife Lauren, and their three children, two boys and a girl. She remembered them playing around the beach they went to last summer. She remembered their tanned skin covered in towels on their way back home in the trunk of their father's Silverado. Lauren was a tall girl, very talkative, with pretty green eyes and long, cornsilk, blonde hair. They had often gone shopping together in Florence, it being only an hour and a half away, and had spent their money in Prada shoes, Marc Jacobs handbags, Dolce & Gabbana watches, Dior sunglasses... She wondered if they had sent Laurent and Charlie to do the job, or if they had sent someone else. If it happened before or after it had happened to her. If they had killed Lauren before they killed the kids. If it was fast or if they took their time. _Fucking pigs._ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She would be damned if Mr. Cullen saw her cry. She then cursed Tyler under her breath. Tyler was ignorant and stupid just like some other traffickers. He got himself in huge problems without realizing that his family would be in great peril as well. But unlike Tyler, Mike was smart and always knew all the risks that came with each decision he chose. He always knew what could happen to her and yet never gave a fuck.

"What happened?" she asked.

Mr. Cullen shrugged. "Everything that needed to happen."

She looked at the bodyguard who was at the door with his AK-47 in his hand. He was as silent as a ghost. Changing the drug dealing with politics didn't mean you wouldn't still need protection. The other bodyguard that was outside was also armed. He had given the watchman two hundred Euros in exchange for his departure. Mr. Cullen glanced at the bag Isabella had left on the ground and then at the Double Eagle that was resting on her lap.

"Your man was playing with fire. He was bound to get burned."

"Did he really die?"

"Of course he died. He was caught up in the mountains... It wasn't the police who killed him though. It was his own people."

"Who was it?"

"It does not matter who. You know in what kind of troubles Mike got into. He was putting his own merchandise in other's boats. Someone eventually caught on and well, the rest you can figure out."

Mr. Cullen grabbed the agenda and opened it. He moved it closer to the dim candle light and scanned through it.

"Did you read what's in here?"

She shook her head. "I just brought it to you, like he said," she lied.

Mr. Cullen nodded, thoughtfully. He looked uncomfortable.

"Poor Mike. But he got what was coming to him." he said.

"Poor? Him? Please. The fucking bastard didn't think of me when he got himself in all of that crap." She had managed to keep her voice from shaking and noticed Mr. Cullen tilting his head to the side, considering her, his smooth face impossible to read.

"You're lucky," she heard him say. "at the moment you're still alive."

He stood there quietly, observing her with his head still tilted to the left.

"What are you going to do now?" He finally asked.

Now it was Isabella's turn to shrug. "I don't know. Mike said you would help me. Give it to him and ask him to help you. That's what he had said."

"Mike had always been an optimist."

Mr. Cullen words echoed around the chapel. The sick feeling she had had in the pit of her stomach intensified. She began to feel like she was suffocating. She leaned forward and shut her eyes tightly as she clenched and unclenched her fist. She fought the urge to get up, throw the candles to the walls, and run out to get some fresh air. She would run again if she still could. But when she opened her eyes she saw that the other Isabella Swan was sitting in front of her, observing her. Or perhaps it was she who was sitting there silently staring at the frightened woman as she leaned forward on the bench with Mr. Cullen at her side.

"He was very fond of you, sir." she heard herself say.

Mr. Cullen shifted in his seat. A good man, Mike had always said. A great and just man; the best boss he had ever had.

"I was very fond of him, too." Mr. Cullen spoke very softly, as if he was telling her a secret. "And of you too... but he left you in a very bad situation."

"I need help."

"I cannot get involved in this."

"But you have a lot of power. Surely you can—" she was cut in mid-sentence when he clicked his tongue in dismay and impatience.

"In this business," he said quietly as he glanced at the bodyguards, "power is a relative thing, something ephemeral, something subjected to complicated rules. The reason I still have power is because I don't go around sticking my nose where it doesn't belong. I have nothing personal against you but it would be very reckless and stupid of me to interfere."

"But you could talk to them. Tell them that I don't know anything." She insisted.

"They are perfectly aware that you don't know anything but that isn't the problem... As I said before, I cannot get involved in this."

"Besides," continued Mr. Cullen, "what you've told me makes things worse. They wouldn't let a man slip through their fingers just like that, much less a woman. They would be the laughing stock of all Italy."

Isabella looked at his gentle blue eyes, pleading.

Mr. Cullen looked away and said, "I cannot get involved. I am sorry." then he stood. _This is the end_, she thought. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach suddenly became unbearable. She became nauseous. She gave up, but the woman that was watching her from the shadows did not.

"Mike said you would help me." she stubbornly insisted. "Give him the agenda and ask him to help you. That's what he told me."

"Your man liked to use double entendres."

"I don't know anything about double entendres. I just know that he told me that you would help me." It sounded more like a complaint than plea. A sincere and bitter complaint. Or reproach.

She remained quiet for a moment. Then she finally raised her head, like a tired prisoner awaiting a verdict. Mr. Cullen stood before her. He seemed bigger and more intimidating now more than ever. He drummed his finger over the surface of the agenda.

"Bellie..."

"Yes?"

He kept drumming his fingers over the agenda's surface. She watched him as he glanced at the saint's porcelain statue, then at the bodyguard, and then at her. "Did you really not look inside?"

"I swear."

There was a pregnant pause. Isabella could hear the sizzling wicks of the candles that were over the altar.

"You have only one option." he said at last.

Isabella let out a small sigh of relief. She then looked up and hung on his every word. The other woman had disappeared into the shadows and now she was herself again.

"One is all I need."

"Do you have a passport?"

"Yes."

"What about money?"

"A little over thirteen thousand dollars." she opened her bag to show it to him. She was hopeful.

"And about ten or twelve ounces of coke."

"Leave the cocaine. It's dangerous to walk around with that. Can you drive?"

"No," she had stood up and looked at him attentively. She was concentrated on staying alive. "I don't even have a license."

"I doubt you'll be able to get to Switzerland safely... The best thing you can do is leave tonight. I can lend you a car with a reliable driver... Yeah, I can do that." he nodded his head as he paced around. "He'll take you straight to the airport, where you'll grab the first plane that will get you out of here."

"The first plane that goes where?"

"I don't care where. But if you want to go to Spain, I have friends there. People who owe me favors ... If you call me tomorrow before boarding the plan I'll be able to give you someone's name and phone number. From there you'll be on your own."

"Isn't there any other option?"

He shook his head. "No. That's the only option."

Isabella looked around, looking for something in the shadows of the chapel. She was all alone. There was nobody that could decide for her now. But at least she was still alive.

"I have to go soon." Mr. Cullen was getting impatient. "Make up your mind, quickly."

"I've made up my mind. I'll do whatever you say."

"Very well then," Mr. Cullen watched her as she clicked the safety on the gun and put it in the back of her pants before covering it with a jacket. "And remember this, Bellie, not even in Spain are you safe, okay? If I have friends, they do too. So try to wipe yourself off from the face of the earth."

Isabella nodded. She had taken the package of cocaine out of the bag and placed it on the altar, under the image of St. Joseph. In return she lit up another candle. She said a small prayer and crossed herself rapidly.

"I'm really sorry about what happened to Mike." Mr. Cullen said to her back. "He was a nice guy."

Isabella turned to face him. She threw her bag over her shoulder and for the first time in that day she smiled. And that smile, or whatever it was, surprised Mr. Cullen greatly. He now looked at her as if she was a stranger.

"No," she said, "Mike wasn't a nice guy. He was a fucking son of a bitch."

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**A/N: I've decided to make this chapter a bit long because I won't be uploading any more for quite a while.**

**Thank you for reading and don't forget to review! All type of criticism is welcomed. :)**


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